


I Cannot Come In (Unless You Dream of Me)

by theharellan



Series: I Have Found a Home (Ian x Solas) [10]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Other, Rite of Tranquility, Storm Coast (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 02:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12761505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theharellan/pseuds/theharellan
Summary: When word of Ian's capture reaches Solas, he does everything within his power to see him brought safely home.





	I Cannot Come In (Unless You Dream of Me)

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series of drabbles & roleplays about the relationship the (non-Inquisitor) Ian Lavellan and Solas as interpreted by theharellan. This is a repost of a drabble responding to Ian's personal quest. Canon Divergent.

His eyes ache, bleary from an early rise. Ian insists that Solas need not wake to see him off. Unlike most couples, they have the benefit of dreams, but there is no harm in losing a few minutes of sleep to say good-bye. "Stay dry, Vhenan,” Solas whispers, kissing the tip of Ian’s nose. His touches their foreheads together, pressing ginger hair against the tree of Mythal. “Remember: bare feet are always an option if you find your boots soaked through.”

From this close he cannot see the smile that parts Ian’s lips, but he can hear teeth clicking against his lips, see the laugh lines that accompany his every giggle. “You should know you’re wasting your breath by now.”

“You cannot fault me for trying.”  


He does not answer with words, sealing the distance between them with a soft kiss. Their breath tastes of morning, but it doesn’t deter him. Solas sinks into this kiss, as he does with every kiss. It is desperation that pulls him against Ian when he feels them begin to part, greedily stealing one last kiss before he must go. It will be several weeks before he will get another, which should seem like the blink of an eye for a man who has lived through many ages. 

(It doesn’t.)

Their lips part with a loud smacking sound, and he laughs when he sees the somewhat dazed expression on his love’s face. “If you do not leave soon, they may leave you behind.” His hands fall like dead weights from Ian’s side. “ _[Dareth shiral](d)_.”

“I’ll be back soon. _Sule tael tasalal_.” Ian rises upon his toes to plant one final kiss on Solas’s cheek, sinking down onto his heels. The sound of boots accompanied his departure, clicking against the floor as if to mock him. His fingers press against his cheek as he sinks back into bed, pulling his feet under the covers. In his head he turns over the idea of seeing him off, watching as he trots in wolf form by Scout Harding’s heels, or rides alongside them upon horseback.  


Instead, he chooses the pillow and the lingering warmth of the sheets. He curls tighter than he would normally, his nose burying in the downy pillow. He falls asleep quickly, with the taste of Ian’s kisses on his lips.

* * *

“Missing?” Solas is thankful for the book he holds. Rather than worry his hands before him he bends the corners of the page with his thumb, his other hand rubbing the book cover. His heart quickens, a sense of shame washes over him. For weeks he has sat at his desk doing nothing. He could have been searching, he could have--   


Scout Harding’s face wrinkles with pity, and suddenly Solas finds it difficult to look her in the eye. “Red Templars attacked our people on the storm coast. He wasn’t found among the dead.” He isn’t sure if those words are supposed to comfort or torture him. The page he thumbs give way, tearing at the corner. If Ian lives, what then? Will they force lyrium down his throat? Torture him ‘till their questions are answered?  


“There is... one other thing.” His gaze snaps back to her, eyes wide as she withdraws a phial from the pouch at her hip. Its contents swirl in a vortex. Solas feels his throat dry, without knowing what it is. “I found this at the site of the attack, it was his. Did you... know about this?” Without a word he shakes his head. “They call it Quiet Death. He took it in case--”

“I know why, thank you.”  


“Well, it’s still full. Wherever he is, I think there’s a good chance he’s alive.” She proffers it to him and he reaches out, hesitating. His fingers close, ready to return to his book, before they snatch it from her grasp. Thumb stroking along the wax stopper, he tries not to think of why this was all they found. The wax was partially peeled away, loose enough that he could push open the cap for himself. In the crystal he can see his reflection, a single listless eye stares up at him from his lap. “I’m just back at Skyhold to get reinforcements. The Inquisitor and I are headin’ out as soon as it’s light.”  


His grip tightens around the phial, the bones in his wrist protruding. “Ask the Inquisitor if I can join you,” he responds. Solas chokes down the quaver that threatens to overcome him. “Remind them that I can track Ian in two worlds, not one.”

“I will, Solas. Don’t w-” _Worry_. “Don’t forget to sleep.”  


The bottle turns over in his hands, over and over, rubbing the heel of his wrist raw. “Thank you.”

* * *

Each night he lays his bedroll as far northeast as he is able, no matter how far he is from the fire. He sleeps, pointed towards the coast, like a compass that always points home. The Fade is full of memories and dreamers, but there is only one head he seeks. Spirits follow him, wisps dancing around his staff, hoping to play. Each night they abandon him, and only Purpose remains.

The wetter the ground beneath his feet becomes, the more desperate he grows in his dreams. Memories that would once capture his imagination have no hold over him. He cares only for the vast expanse before them, how _empty_ the Fade suddenly seems.

Solas wakes up more tired than when his eyes closed. Those who are awake before him turn towards him as he stirs, hands rubbing at his eyes. “Any sign of Twinkles?” Varric asks. His tone is as light as ever, but his brow is laden with worry. As Solas approaches, he offers the elf a bowl of breakfast, only to be waved off.

“Nothing.”  


“We’re still another day from the coast. Could be that we’re not close enough, or maybe they’re keeping the poor kid up.” He glances up at Solas, shrugging. “A little optimism doesn’t hurt. Usually.”  


Optimism has served him poorly in the past, but he nods at Varric’s suggestion. Dawn breaks over the horizon, he has a day’s travel to forget the quiet. The dwarf’s attention is drawn away by another, freeing Solas. He curls into himself, fingers pulling at the fabric of his sweater. His face does not change as he stares into the corpse of last night’s fire. The only one close enough to see what lies beneath his eyes is beyond his sight.

In the background he hears a prayer upon the Seeker’s lips, but they both know that if-- _when_ \-- they find Ian, it will not be the intervention of a god.

No true god would have lost him in the first place.

* * *

“Here it is,” Harding sighs. “Not exactly as we left it, but pretty close.”  


The ground is littered with the imprints of bodies, grass and flowers trampled beneath heavy boots. Those who died had been removed days ago, wrapped in white and returned to families who will remember their names ‘till the day they die. Their party spreads out, examining every blade of grass bent out of shape. 

Solas slips away to the edge of the battlefield without notice. He does not bow his head in sleep, sliding into the Fade with a thought. Pulling back the curtain, he leaves behind his earthly shell for the soul within. The world is the same here, wet and miserable, though he goes barefoot he can feel wet socks clinging to his feet, boots soaked with rain. A dozen voices ring out in unison, first in companionship, then alarm.

How quickly the memory changes, distorting the shape of the Fade. Though his eyes close, he still sees. The skies open up before him and raindrops fall, unhindered, into eyes wide with pain. His breathing is even, but hers isn’t. She gasps with every ounce of strength, gloved hands pulling claw marks in the mud.

She sees her life reflected in grey clouds. Grey-- the colour of monsoon clouds in the Antivan summer sky (her first kiss was in the rain, dark hair slick against the back of her neck. Camila’s kiss was sweet, it still is). The memories are obscured by a familiar face, the healer who had come from Skyhold to see there sick were tended to. Solas cannot tell if the breath that catches in his throat is his or hers. _Ian_ , he thinks, as she realises she will not die alone.

He feels Ian’s hands on another’s body, fingers slick with blood. He doesn’t look at her, but she can see how he trembles. If he stays, he will die. If he leaves, she will die. She can tell the tears from the rain, every stifled sob tears at the wound in her side. What if he takes out the arrow and it all spills out? Protests begin to spill from her lips as the feeling slips from her fingers. It won’t be long until he’s as useless as they are.

                    _“You’re a shif–a shifter. Get…get run-running.”_  


Her lips part in a soft gasp as magic envelopes the wound. Though rains still pour from the heavens, it is like sinking into a warm bath. It cannot stop the cold, nor the heavy armoured boots that march towards them. She can let go-- it’s okay, it’s _okay_.

Solas sees one last glimpse of Ian’s face before he stands, and the memory grows dim. She clings to nothing but the earth and the memory of her mother’s smile. The warmth of his magic still spread through her veins, and she sighs. With only the sky above her, she can almost convince herself that she is home.

The world slips into monochrome. A ridged phial presses against his palm, fingers working off the wax that seals in the poison. The lyrium that burns beneath their armour is no redder than the rest of the world. Solas sees a flash of colour, blue-grey eyes set in a pale face, and the memory dissolves as a steel glove grips his throat. His eyes open, first in the Fade and then reality.

Behind him he hears a joint cracking, the sound of someone bending their knee as they wait for Solas to move. “They’ve taken him,” he breathes. Solas turns on his heel. His fist shake at his side as he bears down upon the Inquisitor. Every bone in his hand protrudes through his skin, cartilage ready to snap. “They have Ian. Where they’ve taken him, I--”  


“There’s those caves to the north west. They had to have taken him there,” Scout Harding says.  


“Then we have our target,” Cassandra steps in before Solas can demand she take him. “We will rally what forces we brought with us, and take the stronghold.” Her eyes turned upon Solas, gaze narrowing to a razor’s edge. They are not unkind, but softness does not come easily to the Seeker. “Solas, it may be best if you remain at camp. We do not want to lose two mages.”  


“If you are asking me to sit idly by while he may be dead, or _worse_ \--”  


“No, I merely--”  


“ _Good_ ,” he says firmly. “Then I am coming with you.”  


* * *

Fire burns, and the air is charred with the scent of human flesh roasted in iron casing. It is all too easy for Solas to pull fire from the Fade. Beyond the Veil he hears Rage’s whispers, they promise that when they are one he will become _flame_. They are easy to ignore, but their presence unsettles him.

He plants his feet in the ground, holding back with the archers. It takes every ounce of his strength not to surge forward with Cassandra. Solas does not enjoy death, but he needs it. The world will be safer without them in it. That is what he tells himself as he steps over a body, feet carrying him quickly towards the inner chambers. The dwarves built their kingdoms well, centuries of disuse have not rotted their creations. They make for fine keeps-- and sturdy prisons.

“Our scouts have reported seeing holding cells ahead. Be ready!” The Seeker cries. His heart leaps into his throat, Varric’s words at camp echo in his ears. He dares himself to hope, throwing himself into the next room.  


The heel of his staff strikes the floor, pulling a piece of the Fade through the Veil. It pulls the enemy of their feet, disrupting any negation abilities that they had intended to use. A hail of arrows fall around him, sticking in the exposed throats of the fallen Templars. Cassandra charges in, leading the few warriors they had brought with them.

Solas looks around the room once, staring until he finds the Templar with a key ring on their hips. Locked in combat with another Inquisition warrior, Solas taps the ground. The ground beneath their feet burst into flames. They lick harmlessly off the face of his ally, but the screams of the Templar rings in his ears as he approaches.

Hands clasp together before them, and he hears a shout. A prayer recited in a tremoring tone. 

      “ _Now her hand is raised_ ,  
_A sword to pierce the sun,_  
_With iron shield she defends the faithful,  
___Let chaos be undone!”

The fire is smothered by a blue ray of light, faith and will douses his magic. Solas stumbles, toes scraping over stone floors. All the air is stolen from his lungs, and for a moment the whispers of the Fade are naught but dead air. He coughs, keeling forward, hands gripping his stomach.

Beneath the haze, he remembers Ian. How he must have shaken when they robbed him of his power, how alone he must have felt. Solas hears the sound of keys clinking together, and he growls.

With a swift gesture, he pulls what little mana he has regained and rushes forward on a wave of energy.

They raise their sword, but it is too late. He slams against them, knocking them to the ground. Their hand scrambles for their sword, but ice clings to their joints. Pinned to the ground beneath him, Solas knows if he moves more than an inch they will have the advantage.  His knife is tucked beneath the leg of his pants, leaning back to retrieve it would kill him.

Bloodied hands grip his staff. His enemy twists back, neck exposing. Without a second thought, he slams it against her neck. There is not strength in his arms to kill an army, but he presses with every ounce of might he has. He sees their eyes grow wide beneath their visor, mouth gaping. No prayers are sung, only a desperate gasping as they beg for air. Too late do their hands reach for his face, trying to fit their fingers into his eyes. The edge of their armour cuts his cheek, blood dribbling down his face.

He pulls himself up, then thrusts his staff once more into their throat.

Their hands fall almost gently from his face, eyes rolling back. Skin bruised where his staff pushed against their neck, blue creeps into their features, settling beneath the red glow of lyrium. Solas’s chest heaves, breath rattling. He reaches for the keys with steady fingers and begins to thumb through them. Everything is surreal, as if this is a memory he is reliving. He imagines opening his eyes and finding himself buried in another elf’s arms, their breath slow and calm.

“Solas.”  


His eyes snap towards the Inquisitor, who stands with their hand stretched out. He places the key in their open palm, knowing they had meant to help him stand. “Find him,” he whispers.

He stands, leaning heavily upon his staff. The stone beneath his feet does not feel whole, but he holds himself up. Everything is disjointed, realer than it should be in the wake of the Templar’s presence. The fighting is faded, the worst of their order destroyed. In the distance he hears heavy doors open, the sound of his love’s name upon the Inquisitor’s lips. Relieved laughter bubbles in his throat, only to die before it so much as wrinkles the corners of his eyes.

“Vhenan...” The name is a sigh on his lips. He turns in time to see him led out of the cell. His crown has been bloodied, his body bruised, but he is here. Solas forgets the emptiness of his dreams, the heavy pressure in his ears, and strides forward to help carry him.  


A few feet away he stops, catching the hint of tears in the Inquisitor’s eyes. Despite the wounds that riddle Ian’s body, he is not bent over, nor broken. In some ways, he stands prouder now than he ever had before. “Solas, I-” The Inquisitor begins, their voice strangled. With his free hand he reaches out, peeling red hair from a blood-soaked forehead. His fingers connect with the mark of a sun and he draws back, as if scalded by it. “We were too late.”

There is no colour in his love’s eyes. The only emotion is that which Solas sees in in his own reflection. His jaw slackens, throat going dry. Like looking into the face of a ghost... he does not know who to curse, who to blame. What use is wisdom when he cannot save the ones he loves? He pulls his hand against his chest, rubbing away the feeling of the mark beneath his fingertip. “I am so sorry,” he whimpers.

“You have saved me.” Ian’s voice is flat, unchanging as the stone. Every ounce of breath is stolen from Solas’s lungs. He wrings fistfuls of his sweater, struggling to hold his tongue. _We did not save enough of you._  


“So we did.” His response is clipped. On the inside, he screams. He should stay and help tend the wounds that bruise the freckles he once kissed, one by one, but the ground feels hot beneath the balls of his feet. “I need to be alone.” He fears any spirit that should find him would be corrupted by his presence. Solas scrapes his toes against the stone, taking a tentative step back. “Take care of him, Inquisitor.” _Where I could not,_ the thought is left unfinished. His heart clenches, blue-grey eyes lifting to meet Ian’s gaze once more. “I will come back,” he promises, voice hitching when he realises the vow will bring Ian no comfort. No joy.  


He does not stay to hear Ian’s answer, gone in a wisp of frosted air that carries him away. Through smoke and rocky cliffs he sees the sky, and he runs towards it.

Solas is grateful for the grey skies-- blue skies will only remind him of the mark emblazoned upon a sun-kissed brow.


End file.
